Chapter 2
As Gabrielle Gates slid into the Mercedes with the driver the hotel had hired for her for the duration of her stay, she saw a tall, gray-haired man arrive in a dark suit with a stern face. He got out of a taxi, carrying a briefcase and a small rolling bag, which he carried himself, and she noticed that the doorman made a fuss about him. He never smiled, but everything about him suggested that he was important. He looked very severe, preoccupied, and unhappy. He never smiled at the doorman, and walked hurriedly into the hotel. Her driver noticed him too.
“Who was that?” she asked, curious about him. She had requested an English-speaking driver, since she didn’t speak French, but understood bits and snatches of it after years of doing business with the art world in France. Arthur hadn’t spoken it either. “Is he someone important? The doorman looked impressed.”
“He is important,” the driver confirmed, as he glanced at her in the rearview mirror. The driver was about her age, and was well dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie, and spoke good English. “He’s Patrick Martin, our minister of the interior. He’s going to run for president in the elections next spring.” He looked to be somewhere in his fifties, and now that the driver mentioned it, there was something presidential about him. It was easy to believe.
“Do you think he’ll win?” She was intrigued by him. He didn’t look like much fun, but he looked serious and respectable.
“Maybe so. Maybe not on the first round, but on the second one. Our presidential election is in two parts. He’s very well respected, although not very warm. But maybe we would be better off with a not warm president, who is a serious person. Some of the amusing ones have been bad presidents. And power goes to their heads, for all of them. Then they bring their girlfriends and mistresses and scandals to the Élysée. Patrick Martin has no scandals. He’s very…rigid, do you say? And very pure.”
“He looks it,” Gabrielle said, amused by the driver’s description of him.
“We have many parties in France. He will run against two women. One is a Communist, and the other one very right wing and extreme. He would be better. But there are some others too.”
“Politics are confusing everywhere these days,” she said, looked at the pamphlet she had of the galleries showing at the Biennale and forgot about the minister of the interior. She wondered why he was staying at the hotel. Maybe he was meeting a woman. He had entered the hotel at full speed.
* * *
—
When Patrick Martin got to the front desk at the Louis XVI, he asked for Olivier Bateau by name. He had made the reservation himself, and Olivier saw him arrive and approached immediately.
“It’s a great honor to meet you, Minister,” Olivier said a little grandly, and Patrick looked uncomfortable. He had already told him on the phone that he wished to be discreet. Hotel managers were used to those requests and guessed immediately the reason for them.
“Is my room ready?” Patrick responded. He had asked for a simple room, with no fanfare. He had said he would be using it for a meeting, which Olivier didn’t believe. An assignation with a woman was more likely. Martin was a handsome man.
“Of course. I’ll take you up myself.” Bateau came around the front reception desk rapidly, with electronic key in hand. He had spent more time at the front desk than in his office for the past week. He wanted to be there to greet their more important guests when they arrived. He had missed the boat with Gabrielle Gates and still didn’t realize it. Yvonne did, since she had seen the VIP reception Gabrielle had gotten both at Claridge’s and the Four Seasons in Milan, when she worked there. She knew they had fallen short at the Louis XVI, but Gabrielle had been extremely polite about it and hadn’t complained.
Patrick Martin and the manager got into the elevator together, Olivier had requested the third floor, one of their VIP floors, with the grander suites. He stepped out ahead of Patrick and led the way. He opened the door and waved Patrick into the room. The minister looked shocked the moment he walked in, and turned to Olivier with a look of displeasure.
“I asked for a simple room. This is an enormous, luxurious suite.” He looked anything but happy about it.
“Indeed, sir. We upgraded you, at no extra charge. It is our pleasure to give you one of our finest suites.” Olivier looked delighted with himself. The minister of the interior didn’t.
“Can you switch me back to a plain room, not a suite?”
Olivier was shocked and disappointed. “I’m afraid not, sir. We’re completely full for the next several weeks. And many people have specifically requested their old rooms. I hope you’ll be happy here, sir.” He had expected Patrick to be over the moon. Instead he seemed agitated, and his already thin lips were set in a straight line.
“Fine. It’s only for one night. It doesn’t sit well for a minister to indulge himself with such luxury, even though I’m paying for it myself.” He had used a personal credit card when he checked in at the desk, not his government one. “I’m expecting you to be discreet,” he reiterated to Olivier.
“Of course, sir. That’s understood.” Normally, they would expect to know if the room would be occupied by more than one person, but under no circumstance did he intend to ask the minister of the interior that question. The minister of the interior was responsible for secret government agencies, like the FBI and CIA in the States. He was a powerful man. He stood uncomfortably, looking around the suite, obviously eager for the manager to leave, which he did hastily. Patrick sat down heavily in an antique Louis XVI armchair and sighed. He felt anxious just being there. He opened his briefcase and glanced into it, and then checked the rolling bag. He had everything he needed. He felt tense and unable to relax while he waited, and then finally stood up, walked over to the mini bar, and poured himself a stiff drink of straight scotch, neat. He drank it down, poured himself a second one, and took it with him to sit and wait for the knock on the door.
* * *
—
When Olivier Bateau got back to the front desk after seeing Patrick Martin to his room, a tall, distinguished, burly man was checking in. He looked serious, but he had warm, friendly eyes. He was somewhere in his late forties, spoke French fluently with a British accent, and said his name was Alaistair Whyte-Jones. He said he had reserved a junior suite, which was a bedroom with a sitting area, no separate living room. It was a new configuration since the remodel, and they had several of them. He said he had never stayed there before, which they had already noted about him in the computer.
He didn’t explain why to them, but he had a meeting in Paris, and had decided to treat himself to a few days’ holiday, which he hadn’t had in a long time. Paris was his favorite city, and he was happy to be there. He looked around the hotel and was led to his room by one of the young junior managers at the front desk.